


So I Can Ride On the Clouds

by Fudgyokra



Series: Kinktober 2018 [8]
Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Costume Kink, Derogatory Language, Dirty Talk, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Humor, Jealousy, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Public Humiliation, Semi-Public Sex, Spanking, Strip Tease, Strippers & Strip Clubs, Undercover Missions, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-28
Updated: 2018-10-28
Packaged: 2019-08-08 19:15:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16435253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fudgyokra/pseuds/Fudgyokra
Summary: Actually hearing the plan in person was less enthusing, mostly because Tim’s mouth formed the words “strip club” and then “exotic dancer” as if those were perfectly normal mission parameters.





	So I Can Ride On the Clouds

**Author's Note:**

> Here, take this tropey and wholly self-indulgent Kinktober fill so I don’t have to look at it anymore!! Title from [here.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bb1ad7r5oN8)
> 
> Day 28: Omorashi | Stripping/Striptease* | Vore | Humiliation*

 

When Dick got the memorandum stating he would be going undercover for the first time in ages, he met the idea with excitement. Undercover work was fun! Different from the drudgery of boring old rooftop vigilantism.

Actually hearing the plan in person was less enthusing, mostly because Tim’s mouth formed the words “strip club” and then “exotic dancer” as if those were perfectly normal mission parameters. Dick saw more than heard him say it because the blood was busy pooling in his ears to drown out the sound of Jason’s raucous laughter combining with his own developing headache. But okay. He’d done a job like this back when he was a Spyral agent, so he could handle it with no problem.

Then came the kicker: “Well, no,” Tim said, frowning around the rim of his coffee mug. “You won’t be working another single-shift bachelorette party.”

He hesitated to inquire further, with good reason. Sure, he’d had fun doing that gig way back when, but only _because_ it was a one-time thing. “Then what?” he forced himself to ask, anyway.

“It’s an extended operation. You’re going to have to go deep—”

“Balls deep,” Jason interrupted with a barely-contained grin. It earned a huff from Damian and brought an anxious pallor to Dick’s face in tandem.

Tim pursed his lips, rethought his words, then: “You’ll have to work nightly. As a _stage_ dancer.”

So, yeah. That was how he ended up where he was, and by this point (day number five, marked religiously on the calendar back at his apartment) the novelty had worn thin.

He’d amassed a rather concerning following within the first two days, split down the middle in terms of type: Women his age, wearing colorful cocktail dresses, sloshing booze; and men _twice_ his age, wearing business-style suits, sloshing booze.

Worse still, Jason descended on his location one night for a laugh, and even though he begged him not to blab, Dick found the next day that his patronage had doubled. Normally, this would have been a plus, because it looked good for business and for the act he was trying to sell, but that night had been an absolute shitshow, at least in his book.

The turnout included many of his former mission partners, all of whom looked at him with leering grins like it was inescapably hilarious and pointed out that they’d come to see if Red Hood had been telling the truth. Dick was going to throttle him. Deathstroke, Midnighter, Tiger and more corralled around the stage—out of uniform and consequently blending right in with the usual hustle of older men—their feet propped up on the grimy bar-style tables, waiting for a show. Possibly the worst part was that they paid. _Well._ So, it wasn’t like he could make them leave unless he wanted to blow his cover, which was not an option.

Further along into the night, Midnighter and Deathstroke had gotten into a brawl. Every night after that they were peaceable, but since Dick was oh-so lucky, this turned out to be because they’d settled on an arrangement. More of a game, really, which they must have called something like, “Let’s see who can get the most gropes of ass in a night.” Eventually, he’d gotten pinched and prodded so much he was beginning to feel like bread dough, but that was a little beside the point, because the most embarrassing thing by far was happening right now.

 _Bruce_ showed up.

Dick was beginning to think he didn’t have lucky stars to count on. Maybe he’d used them all up flinging himself around Gotham in spandex.

He couldn’t do this, not in front of him. Not wearing this abomination of an outfit. His visceral loathing of the skimpy Batman uniform—complete with scandalously tiny shorts, black boots, and a cheap corset—that his stage manager handed him earlier in the evening was suddenly ten times worse than before. It even had a costume-style cape. Dick wanted to die on the spot. He supposed it was better than having to wear the Robin uniform like on his first shift, but small mercies in this case weren’t doing him any favors considering the music was on and that all but screamed “action!” So, he did the only thing he could do: He performed as usual.

Bruce had to have known what he’d be in for. Dick could see the lines of his face beneath the neon lights, and even though they remained unmoving, he could only guess that he was there for a reason. Maybe to tell him his cover was no longer needed. But, then, wouldn’t he have waited until after the performance? The answer Dick wanted to be true kept harassing him, no matter how many times he tried to shut it up with other, more likely options.

But as the music rose and his exaggerated undulations drew shouts and catcalls from the crowd, he found that he couldn’t take his eyes off Bruce’s face. He knew his own expression was something to be reckoned with. Breathing through parted lips; face pink and beading with sweat; eyes half-lidded, electric. Losing himself to whatever cheesy pop song filtered through the club’s sub-par speakers had always been the easy part, and he began to wonder if it’d become a little too easy, because he hardly registered the way a voice, drunk and brash, shouted from the front until the word stung his ears like so many pins and needles.

“Slut!”

And then more. “Look at him go!”

“Ya think he’d blow me if I paid?”

“Pretty mouth like that—”

“Sex in motion—”

“Bet he fucks as good as he—”

“Moving like that—”

Dick’s eyes fluttered closed, face warmed further by the sounds. It wasn’t unlike what he was used to, not really, but when his gaze hooked back on Bruce’s face, the man’s jaw was set tightly to the side as if he were angry. Whether with the commentary or with Dick’s ability to brush it off, he couldn’t be sure. Or maybe he _believed_ them. Maybe he looked at him, gyrating on stage with breathy sighs and his lips pulled into a purposeful look of sex and sin, and found himself disgusted with what his mentee had become.

Dick forgot for a moment this was all part of the mission. All he could think about was how those eyes stuck on his every move, even as he slowly worked the corset off. Muscles tensing and relaxing, shoulders leaning back with the motion of his craned neck, showing off the way his abdominals rippled with effort. The way the lights caught the glow of his shiny skin, as many exposed inches as were visible…

Forgetting was forgivable, but the way he caved in to his desire to wink at the man was not. He watched Bruce tense and press his lips into a thin line, but he couldn’t stop. He flicked his tongue out, licked his lips, ignored the hooting and hollering from below until dollars came flying, and then he thought, wickedly, that he rather liked it. At least, he liked the way Bruce looked ready to tear heads off necks. It flattered him. Made him feel tingly all over in just the way he knew it shouldn’t have.

The daily “Take it off!” suggestions grew more frequent. “Show us, baby!” someone bellowed.

Dick’s hands didn’t shake when he reached for the laces holding his shorts together. They unwound easily and dropped the scant little thing to the ground, leaving the stupid thong in its place. It was just another cheap piece of costume fabric, completely black with a yellow Bat-symbol printed across the front. Suddenly, Dick found it unendingly hilarious. He especially liked the way Bruce’s eyes darted across it, down his legs, and then back to his face. And then away, as if ashamed.

Due to his lack of attention to the rowdy crowd, he hadn’t even noticed that hands had started hitting the platform until the swipe of a calloused palm danced across his calf. The touch was accompanied with a slurred comment Dick could hardly hear, but it did bring Bruce’s eyes back to him, so he was thankful for it. A second later when he assessed why he would feel that way, he came back to something he thought he’d killed and buried long ago. _No_ , he thought, with a surge of shame. Not this, not after so many years.

He caught only halves of sentences from the crowd as his breathing built up into panting.

“—takes it from behind—”

“—like a bitch—”

“—take turns on him—”

“—screams when it hurts—”

“—bet he _likes_ it to hurt—”

Bruce’s fists clenched visibly where they’re settled on his lap, and something in Dick’s chest positively soared. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t know what possessed him to get on hands and knees and crawl across the filthy platform to the edge, letting the equally filthy hands of drunken, sleazy patrons grope and fondle him like a piece of meat. He wanted more of the way Bruce narrowed his eyes and clenched his teeth, not at him but at those wandering hands, like he wanted to cut them all off, one by one. He savored it as much as he could.

The end of the song hit like a rush of cold water, which was when Dick remembered it was the beginning of his last rounds on the floor as well. _Oh, no._ He’d been obviously flirtatious, and now he was going to have to face the consequences.

“Dick.”

“Bruce.”

“A word.” It wasn’t a request, and it didn’t sound friendly.

Dick, standing there in his stupid thong and boots, stupidly decided to joke, “Private dances are twenty a song, B.” When Bruce’s eyes hit him next, they practically glowed. He didn’t mean to shrink back, but the damage had been done.

What he didn’t expect was for Bruce to grab him by the arm, pull him close, and whisper in his ear. Even less expected were the words, “Money’s no problem.”

He hoped he didn’t stammer his okay, but that was probably a pipe dream.

The second the door to the private room closed behind them, Bruce’s hand was on his chest, slamming him back against the wall. He hovered over Dick, the few inches he had on him used intimidatingly well despite the fact he normally had the upper hand in situations like this.

He couldn’t stop his eyes from drifting to Bruce’s mouth. “Uh, B?”

“How can you stand them?” Bruce asked, voice tense in a way that brought back the warmth from earlier. “Those…those cretins treating you like that? Saying those wretched things?”

A strange, nervous laugh bubbled up in Dick’s throat, but he swallowed it down. “You get used to it. It’s not usually that bad, either. Tonight, I kind of let it fall by the wayside.”

“Why is that?” Bruce’s face was so close that Dick could feel his breath. The way his voice pitched with interest did not escape him, either.

“Oh, I don’t know…” He took the chance and dug his fingers into the prim press of his mentor’s button-down, using it as an excuse to look down at the short distance between them. Bruce was _hard_. Dick could see the outline in his otherwise pristine slacks, and it made his mouth water. “I guess I got distracted.” The admittance came out automatically, spoken before he could even think about it.

Then, Bruce laid one large hand against the back of Dick’s neck and he melted under those fingers like some sort of virginal choir boy. He thought he might have said something, but he mostly just heard the hum of his voice instead of the actual words, especially when the man’s other hand circled his chin and tipped his face upward. “I wanted their hands off you.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Wanted to break their fingers for thinking they get to touch you like that.”

“Jealous?” It was meant as a joke, but his voice made it sound genuine.

Bruce’s answering grunt tugged at his heartstrings in a way that words couldn’t. At least, they couldn’t until the next ones out of his mouth were, “You’re mine, you hear me?”

For a professional dancer (however temporary), Dick’s knees sure did shake a lot at that. He couldn’t think of any good smart-ass comments before Bruce kissed him hard, like a starving man out for blood. The realization that he was just as desperate came too late to stop his moan from getting lost between them, trapped in heated breaths and spit-slicked lips.

Bruce’s hands moved down to grip Dick’s hips and coax him closer. Dick lifted a leg to hook around the man’s waist in turn, and just when he thought he had the upper hand, Bruce picked him up like he weighed nothing and slammed him against the wall again, trapping him in another bruising kiss.

With both legs now wound tightly around Bruce’s midsection, Dick could feel just how little coverage his damned costume, if it could be called that, offered. They seemed to have the same thought at the same time, because Bruce lowered a hand and slid his thumb into the tight space between fabric and skin, slipping it out of the way so his fingers could brush an exploratory path over his hole.

“We—here?” Dick breathed, tilting his head when lips latched onto his neck. “I don’t have—” His thoughts were spinning in his head so fast he couldn’t come up with a coherent sentence, but for once the tables were turned and Bruce had him covered.

“Not that. Not here.”

“What’s the plan, then?” Dick asked with a groan at the sensation of teeth grazing beneath his earlobe. “’Cause I’m not gonna lie, I’ve been dreaming about this since I was barely legal.” To his surprise, Bruce actually chuckled against his neck, raising goosebumps on the skin there. “Of course, none of my dreams went anything like this.”

“No?”

“Ha. Well, the thong’s unexpected. Gets a lot of unwelcome hands.”

Bruce pulled back to look at him seriously, with fire in his eyes. It made Dick’s heart jump, not that he’d admit it. “It looked to me like they were plenty welcome.”

At the accusation, Dick’s throat tightened. When he opened his mouth to reply, all that came out was a weak croak of, “What?”

Bruce got his hands back under Dick’s thighs and squeezed tight, pulling him against his body in a way that made Dick’s hips twitch. “You let them say those vile things. Let them put their hands on you.”

“I—I don’t—” was the best he managed before Bruce rocked his own hips against him, forcing out a moan from somewhere deep in his system.

Bruce grunted, keeping them rocking together even as he spoke. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe you are what they say.”

Dick put his hands on either side of Bruce’s face and pulled him in close, just to rest their foreheads together. Against his mouth, he panted, “Say it,” in a low, needy voice.

“ _Whore_.” It came out in a whisper of a breath, and for reasons Dick couldn’t hope to place, hearing it in that carefully-cultivated tone sparked arousal in his gut. “Is that what I taught you?” Bruce continued, making soft sounds of his own now. “To run wild for all these men?”

They both knew it was a mission. This was a _game_ , and it cranked Dick’s libido higher each second. Judging by the way Bruce’s hips jerked, he felt the same. Shakily, he tempted, “Maybe I do like it. Maybe I want ‘em all at once. Want ‘em to go to town ‘til I cry.”

Bruce’s fingers dug into the skin painfully, but the burn only made things better. “Never,” he all but growled.

“You heard them,” Dick continued, heedless of the jealousy, “I like it rough...”

“They don’t know.”

“Filthy...”

“They’ll never know.”

“Degrading.”

Bruce growled again and threw Dick down on the couch. He bounced once, startled, before the man came down after him, pushing the rest of the thong out of the way and letting his cock spring free, shamefully close to bursting.

He settled over him, hand on his cock. “Is that what you want? To be bent over by those animals?” Dick didn’t know if his moan stemmed from the touches or the words or both. “You should be ashamed of yourself,” Bruce said, right into his ear.

Presently, he felt the sting of shame build beneath overheated flesh, as conditioned by so many years of that commanding voice chastising him. The idea of Bruce being disappointed in him, even for play like this, burned hot. The humiliation from the stage flooded back to him all at once and, just like before, he found he craved it in a horrible way. “I’m not…” he lied, wriggling beneath him.

He found himself being moved bodily again, this time to be flipped on his stomach, hips yanked up into an exposing tilt. The embarrassment flared hotter, spreading a flush over his face, which he had to lift from the pillows to look back at the man, scandalized.

“It’s what you want, isn’t it?” Bruce landed a spank across his ass, dragging a gasp from bruised lips. “To be treated like a toy? You certainly seemed to like their ideas.” Another hit, this one harder. “Maybe I should bring them in, let them defile you.” _Smack_. “Listen to you scream, since you want it so badly.” _Smack_. “Let you sully the good family name to be the little whore I apparently raised.” _Smack_.

Dick’s hips jerked, trying to get away from the sting, only to be dragged up again. He earned another spank for the trouble, and at that point his breaths were coming out ragged. Just when he thought he was off the hook, Bruce used his other hand to fist his cock, forcing him closer to orgasm in a large leap of hormones. The sound he made did little to discourage the talk Bruce kept up, punctuated by a thumb rubbing intently between his cheeks, dragging over his rim like he fully intended to penetrate dry.

Dick would let him, was the kicker. He would let him do anything he wanted, just like the slut his gallery of roguish patrons insisted he was. When the tip of the thumb breached, he made a sound he was loath to call a whimper.

“Can’t even handle that? How are you gonna take cock, boy?” Dick whimpered again, an automatic reaction to the moniker. “Is that it?” He surprised him again with another sudden smack, making him yelp. “All talk on the stage, but no gumption off? What would your fans think?”

Finally, Dick flung a hand between his legs and wrapped his fingers around what he could cover of Bruce’s hand, encouraging a tighter grip. “Don’t care! Not theirs, ‘m yours, all yours!” He hadn’t even realized he’d been drooling until he had to consciously close his mouth.

Bruce grunted, placing one palm flat in the center of Dick’s back to press him down while he jerked him off, preventing him from wiggling away when it finally hit, putting a tremor in his thighs and making him pant heatedly against his own arms, which dug into the now-ruined fabric of the room’s couch. Damn, he was going to have to pay for that.

When he stopped shaking, he picked himself up and dropped promptly to his knees, frantic hands working at Bruce’s belt and zipper. Bruce tangled a hand in his hair to urge him forward, and Dick glowed at the possessive nature of the touch. “I’ll prove I belong to you,” he said, for good measure, as he ran a hand up the man’s sex, admiring the weight and thickness. “I’ll be good, I promise.”

Bruce guided himself past Dick’s lips, and the little groan he gave was enough to fuel Dick’s sex dreams for the next year, he was sure. That is, if he couldn’t manage to get the man in bed after this. He prayed he would. He could imagine how Bruce would stretch him, make himself fit, carve a space for all his heat and lust and _love_.

At least this time when he started drooling, it was more intentional. He made sure to look up at Bruce as long as he could manage, watching the emotions flicker across his face. God, he really had forgotten how badly everything in him burned for Bruce Wayne, until it came down to it. If all it took to get him to fuck Dick’s mouth was a little bit of sacrificed ego and a lot of taunting from former vigilante partners, he would’ve done this years ago.

When the head of Bruce’s cock hit the back of his throat, Dick swallowed around it, earning an unfiltered moan that made him want to work that much harder. He didn’t get the chance, though, before Bruce’s hand was on the back of his neck again, this time to make him take all of it, gagging him with it.

His eyes watered, but he wouldn’t trade anything for how it felt to have Bruce coming down his throat, making that shivery sound above him that sounded so nice, he desperately hoped this might happen again someday. For brownie points, he swallowed it all down, shooting an impish grin up at Bruce, whose next exhale was notably shaky.

While he zipped up and got presentable, Dick rearranged what was left of his costume. He regretted leaving his civilians backstage, because now he had to wade through the straggling creeps still dressed like this to get there.

As if reading his mind, Bruce shrugged his jacket off and handed it to him. Dick blinked, accepting it without a word as he did with the sweet, chaste kiss Bruce gave him next. He did, however, forget to dim the glow of what was probably a completely love-struck look, because Bruce flushed darker anyway. “For your trouble,” he offered, gesturing awkwardly to the jacket.

Dick regained his voice in time to fit in one last joke for the night: “Gee, I don’t know how much money you owe me for _that_ , but I promise you it’s a lot.”

And, in a perfect rush of relief, Bruce laughed.


End file.
